It's a Kind of Magic
by tepid sponge bath
Summary: I see a little silhouetto of a man...On a case that takes them out of town, Sherlock, John, and Lestrade deal with what happens to music left in a car for over a fortnight... scaramouche scaramouche will you do the fandango...
1. Chapter 1

**Note:** This was written for Let's Write Sherlock's third challenge (_Songfic! Write a story inspired by music_), though I have to admit that it isn't based on a song so much as the fact, as put forth in Pratchett and Gaiman's _Good Omens_, that all music left in a car for about a fortnight turn into _Best of Queen_ albums.

**Disclaimer**: I lay no claim to 1) the BBC's _Sherlock; _2) Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman's _Good Omens_; 3) the original Holmes stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; and 4) any and all songs by Queen. Nor do I profit from this fic in any way that involves currency.

**It's a Kind of Magic**

**Part 1: "Are you ready, are you ready for this/ Are you hanging on the edge of your seat?" **

"You won't like that," said Lestrade when he saw what Sherlock was doing. "It's been in the car for more than a fortnight."

Sherlock frowned at him and went back to extracting the CD he'd found beneath the seat from its thin plastic case. "Why wouldn't I like it? This is mine."

"Yeah, and you left it here when we chased Yvonne Windibank to Fulworth last month. You know, when you disappeared from the crime scene and showed up four days later in Cardiff with a mustache?"

"Of course, I remember. You needn't sound so sore about it. I told you if I wasn't back again by this time tomorrow—"

"To carry on, yes," put in John from the back seat. "And we did."

"And you did a good job of it, too. I caught her in Cardiff, but the case against her wouldn't have held if you hadn't found that Moët & Chandon in her cabinet."

"Anderson found it." John had to be absolutely clear on that point. Seeing Anderson work without Sherlock hovering about had been downright eerie. Until then he hadn't known that the man was even capable of cracking a smile that wasn't pained or ironic.

"Yes, him. Good to hear he's not entirely useless." Sherlock shook this off and peered closely at the CD. It was definitely the one he'd made for the occasional case-related road trip in other people's vehicles. It had his handwriting on it, and even his name, or at least his initials. "What have you done with my music, Lestrade?"

"It's not so much what I've _done_ as what I let happen, and I didn't even remember the thing was there until you pulled it out, so don't blame me."

For the most part, Sherlock was unused to being on the receiving end of cryptic I-know-better-than-you statements, and John was prepared to bet that he resented that the D.I. was trespassing on what he considered to be his personal purview. All in all, it was unsurprising that he jammed the CD into the radio of Lestrade's BMW in silence, his lips pressed together in a tight, petulant line.

A heavy bass beat began to thump through the vehicle. John sat up in surprise, and Lestrade sighed wearily. Sherlock gave a start, jabbed the eject button, seized the disc when it slid out, glared at it, flipped it over, checked the case lying open on his lap, and fed the CD back into the player.

The same beat started up again.

"That's not Tchaikovsky," said Sherlock, dumbfounded.

"Nope. Not unless that's Tchaikovsky's 'Another One Bites the Dust'." Lestrade twiddled the steering wheel to avoid an overtaking Ford Fiesta. "Didn't you know? Leave music in a car for long enough and it all turns into _Best of Queen_."

**Note**: And the magnificent Khorazir has done art for this chapter! It's over here on tumblr, do check it out: post/59516592314/thats-not-tchaikovsky-inspired-by -the#note-container


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2: "But there ain't no stopping and there's nothin'/ You can do about it"**

"I thought that only happened to tapes," said John as Sherlock frantically skimmed through the tracks. So far they'd found that the CD contained Beethoven's "I Want To Break Free" and Vivaldi's "I'm Going Slightly Mad", and the consulting detective made a funny little choking noise when the next one proved to be Puccini's "Radio Ga Ga".

"It happens to everything," said Lestrade (_All we need is, Radio Ga Ga_, sang Freddie Mercury). "I can't tell you how much my daughter hated me when she left her iPod in here after Christmas."

"I remember Harry just gave up and went with it after a while. She started looking for old tapes to leave in cars on purpose."

"But _how_ does it happen?" demanded Sherlock. He'd let the CD stop at Bach's "One Vision" and was peering into the player's slot as if he expected it to give him answers.

"The best guess is that it's a kind of magic," said Lestrade with the air of somebody who had given the matter much thought and failed to come to any satisfactory conclusion. "And will you get back in your seat? I'm not dying in a horrible accident on the M25 just because you were in the way of the gearstick."

The consulting detective threw himself back against the passenger's seat in a huff, though he soon busied himself with investigating the contents of Lestrade's glove compartment.

"You can't mean it's never happened to you, Sherlock?" asked John, leaning forward so that he could see what his flatmate was doing. It never did to coop him up in a car for long – next thing you knew, he'd be getting into the wiring – and the traffic on the M25 was particularly unholy.

"Not that I've noticed, no. And what are these?" Sherlock held up a stack of CDs, and waved them in front of Lestrade's face when the D.I. continued to pay an unseemly amount of attention to the road.

"_Best of Queen_ albums, the lot of them." Lestrade swatted Sherlock's hand out of the way. "I don't keep music in the car anymore. Too much trouble."

"Do you mind?" Sherlock had already dumped the discs onto his lap, and was opening one that proclaimed itself to be a collection of light jazz.

"Knock yourself out. It's not like we have much of a choice anyway, unless we listen to the radio." _And I'm in no mood for your one-sided row with BBC Radio 4,_was heavily implied.

Sherlock ejected his CD (_Visions of one sweet union-_), handed it to John, and eased the new one into the slot, whereupon it began to ask anybody to find it somebody to love. "So it works on tapes and CDs and MP3 players, but _not_the radio. _Why?_"

"I've always thought," conjectured John, leaning forward and reaching between the seats for the empty case on Sherlock's lap, "that it was because the radio doesn't _store_ music. It plays music that's stored elsewhere. Does that make sense?"

"About as much sense as everything turning into Freddie Mercury. What?" The consulting detective looked from one shocked face to the other, clearly affronted. "I know who that is."

"Well, you didn't know about the solar system-"

"Or Monty Python-"

"Or the Prime Minister-"

…_But everybody wants to put me down, they say I'm going crazy…_

"So you'll forgive us if we're surprised-"

"Yes, yes, all right, you've made your point. It was useful. For a case. That _didn't_ involve any music turning into anything else." Sherlock jabbed the eject button again, passed the disc to John, and opened one that had David Bowie on the cover.

"You could do this yourself, you know," said John, with no real rancor as he fished for the second empty case. "Or you could at least give me the cases too."

"It gives you something to do."

"I'm not the one who can't sit still in a car unless I'm driving. I'm fine looking out the window." And he gave Sherlock's thigh a pat that was definitely more than friendly to show that he didn't mind, not really. Lestrade gave John a meaningful look in the rearview mirror (_please, no PDA in my car,_ it said), and the doctor sheepishly withdrew his hand as the speakers began to emit a familiar bass line.

"Hey, this one's not so bad," Lestrade said brightly when he realized what was playing. "That song's actually on the CD. Did you see that film where they did that with penguins and elephant seals?"

…_Watching some good friends screaming, "Let me out"…_

"I took my sister's kids to the cinema, okay?" he added defensively when his passengers treated him to long, blank stares. "It was a cartoon, and the little penguin sang opera."

"If you say so," said John quickly, before Sherlock could contribute his thoughts on the matter. "Let's see what's next, shall we?"

They ejected the disc when the next track turned out to be "Headlong" instead of "Dancing in the Streets" like it said on the case, and Sherlock fed disc after disc into the player. A compilation of classic rock music yielded "I Want It All"; a scratched Radiohead album (Lestrade gave that one a sad look, as if he'd somehow failed it) played "You're My Best Friend"; and the soundtrack of _Bridget Jones's Diary_("My ex-wife's," explained the D.I. sheepishly. "She likes Colin Firth.") bawled "Too Much Love Will Kill You" as they swung off on to the M40 up to Oxfordshire.

Sherlock, having run out of discs to test (they were all in the back with John now), let that play on through "Seven Seas of Rhye", "Crazy Little Thing Called Love", and "We Will Rock You" as they drove through what were, all things considered, pleasant country roads. A new song started up just as the BMW crested a hill.

"Well, here we are," said Lestrade, over the music.

…_Born to be kings,_proclaimed the speakers, _We're the princes of the universe_…

"Tadfield."


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3: "I gotta get me a game plan, gotta shake you to the ground"**

The song was still playing as they got out of the car in the forecourt of what Lestrade explained was the Tadfield Manor Conference and Management Training Center. Heaven knew John wasn't one for drama, but he had to admit it made for pretty good entrance music. Sherlock certainly swanned out of the vehicle as though dramatic music was his god-given right, and even Lestrade managed to clamber out as if he were gracing the opening credits of the better class of detective series.

The constable who'd been left to wait for them stared. Lestrade showed her his ID, made the appropriate introductions, and momentarily spoiled the effect by running back to the car to turn off the radio. When he got back, she led the three of them to her sergeant, who greeted them with the smile of a man who knew that somebody else would have to do the running around now.

"You don't seem to mind New Scotland Yard barging in," said Lestrade as he had his hand shaken with unwarranted enthusiasm.

"Lord, no," said the man. "We need all the help we can get. We never have to deal with this sort of thing. There hasn't been this much excitement around here since they closed the airbase. Mostly we just do traffic and point Hugh Boone in the right direction when he can't find his way home from the pub." Then he squinted hard at Sherlock, as if trying to place him. "Here, weren't you that private detective who was all over the news a few years back?"

"Save me," muttered Sherlock, rolling his eyes.

He looked like he was about to say more, and nastily, but John, not waiting for the hammer to fall, cut him off with a warning look. By some miracle, he managed to hold his tongue as the sergeant walked them through the facts of the case: the body of Leslie Saltire had been found last night in the rhododendrons lining the drive – they'd cordoned off the area, see? – with his face all bashed in beneath his cycling helmet. He was one of a large group of Shad Sanderson management trainees staying at Tadfield Manor for the weekend, and had been recognized because he was still wearing his badge from the team-building exercises. His DayGlo orange cycling shorts had also helped: apparently he'd been putting in some practice for what the organizers had thought of as a bout of healthy competition to round the weekend off.

"They're all signed up for the annual bicycle race," explained the sergeant. "It's not a very big thing, to hear the cyclists talk, but the trail's pretty this time of year, and it gives us something to look forward to. It's usually very nice – and by that I mean 'scrupulously exact' – and straightforward, we have committees and everything, and I thought we really had it under our thumb this year." He sighed. "That's how it goes, you think you're on top of the world, and suddenly they spring bloody Armageddon on you. In a manner of speaking, of course."


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4: "Fat-bottomed girls, you make the rockin' world go 'round"**

The sergeant stood back to let Lestrade give the crime scene a look, aided by photos from what passed as Forensics in these parts (though he provided mild background noise, mostly going on about the story they'd run in today's Tadfield _Advertiser_). The D.I. and Sherlock studied the broken branches and scattered leaves, and the blood stains that this morning's light rain hadn't quite washed away, while John inspected the perimeter, noting that what seemed to be half the village and all of the visitors had passed through the area before the police tape had gone up.

Sherlock had a minor explosion when John told him this, and another one, smaller but more violent, when he saw it for himself. It was a good job that the sergeant had, at that point, whisked Lestrade off for a look at the body at the local hospital's mortuary, otherwise he'd have gotten a very unpleasant earful. (The constable had already fled, having decided that it was safer to go and tell the woman who ran the Manor that the officers from the Met had arrived, never mind how much Miss Hodges resembled Cruella De Vil. At least she'd be happy to hear that they'd soon have the crime scene tape down.)

"I don't see what you're so upset about," said John, watching Sherlock throw himself to the damp ground several feet outside the crime scene. "It's not like you expected any different. You said before we left London that it was just _another mindless crime_."

The look his flatmate gave him would have withered the more fragile kind of houseplant. "You don't have to sing it!"

"You played Queen almost all the way from London," John pointed out. "Some of it stuck."

"Fine. It still _is_ mindless, and I wouldn't be here if there was anything halfway interesting happening anywhere else." Sherlock inched forward on his elbows to give a patch of grass a closer look. "There hasn't been a decent case for weeks," he complained, voice slightly muffled by his proximity to the soil.

"I suppose I should be glad Greg even managed to get you out of the flat. Quiet Sunday mornings with a cup of tea really aren't your scene, are they?" John crouched down next to the detective. "What have you got there? There's _no blood, no stain_—"

Sherlock glared, and not entirely because of the question. "You know to look for more than that."

The doctor grinned back at him, all innocence. "Well, what is it then?"

"Bicycle tracks. Here and here" – he pointed them out – "leading away from the crime scene and across the lawn. You saw the photos. Don't tell me you didn't notice that Saltire was in biking gear and without a bike."

"I thought Forensics cleared it away with the body. Or that he'd maybe put it away before heading back. The constable said there was a bicycle shed on the grounds."

Sherlock _tsk_-ed and got to his feet, brushing dirt and grass off his coat. "A place like this wouldn't have a bicycle shed on the front of the property." He took a step back, surveying the scenery. "The main building was rebuilt thirty, maybe forty years ago, probably after a calamity of some sort – a fire most likely, but that's just a guess – and you can tell they've spent a fortune on the upkeep ever since, always pays to have something scenic for the pamphlets. They wouldn't ruin it with a conveniently placed bicycle shed, and Saltire was coming up the drive, back to the Manor, possibly from the village."

"You've got mud on your face," said John helpfully, getting up himself. "Just there, on your chin, no, you missed it again – there. So the killer took Saltire's bicycle?"

"And his own. There are two sets of tire tracks, John – see, one of them has a patch on one wheel - and he was pushing them – there's a clear print here, and with a foot that size and that kind of shoe _and _Shad Sanderson's employee profile, it's more than likely that we're dealing with a male killer." Sherlock set off across the lawn, keeping to the left of the tracks with his flatmate following at a decidedly more sedate pace.

If they had been in the city – or, actually, John realized with some surprise, anywhere but Tadfield – he'd have hurried after Sherlock because, well, following the literal trail of a killer is an unsafe thing to do, even at the best of times, especially for a consulting detective with the self-preservation of a suicidal mayfly. But – and John knew he was being fanciful – it was hard to believe that anything bad could happen here. Yes, there had been a murder, and some people would point to that as definite proof that dark forces of one sort or another were abroad, but this village…it was hard to put his finger on it. If he _had _to define it, John would say that it felt like Tadfield was _loved_, immeasurably, unconditionally, and just as it was. It was probably a great place to raise your kids.

"And before you ask," Sherlock was saying, as they rounded the main building, "Yes, it was one of the others from Shad Sanderson. You know how they're cooped up during training courses like this. No matter how foul Saltire was, he's not been here long enough to make enemies, and it wasn't your friendly neighborhood mugging either, he still had his wallet, his phone, and his very expensive diver's watch."

"Unless he was from around here," suggested John, though the idea seemed ludicrous the instant it aired. "Or, no, he couldn't have been, the police would have said."

"So it was either the Mad Tadfield Bicycle Murderer or a Shad Sanderson employee, and my money's on the latter." Sherlock gave John a quick, look-at-me-I'm-clever smile. They had reached the part of the grounds where the land sloped gently downwards from the back of the manor. There were tasteful gardens, a gazebo, a shed in the distance that might well have been the one for bicycles, and, somewhat closer, a large-ish pond. Sherlock pointed at it. "That's where he dumped the bicycles – see how the mud's been disturbed at the edge of it? Stupid, of course, he'd have done better to take them all the way to the shed, even if he did need to wash the blood off, but then he'd just committed an unplanned murder in the dark, and was probably trying to sneak back in before people noticed he wasn't at dinner, no chance at all that he was thinking straight."

"Those bikes – if they were fished out of the pond, and we find out who they belong to-"

"We'll find the killer. Or we _might_. They were probably provided by the conference center, since not every London banker has his very own bicycle."

"But there might still be, I don't know, assigned numbers or something." John considered the pond. "It doesn't look very deep."

"Yes, exactly. Here, hold my coat."

"Sherlock, no!"

They were still arguing about the feasibility of consulting detectives going for dips in ponds – or rather John was protesting vehemently while Sherlock tossed him his coat, his scarf, his jacket, his shoes, and his socks – when Lestrade found them, and John, at least, was deeply thankful when he said that the investigation had been called off.

"Oh, don't stop me now!" Sherlock stamped one bare foot, and the trouser leg he'd assiduously been rolling up fell back down over his shin in a miniature cascade of expensive tailoring.

"It's not like you were having a good time," said Lestrade. "Anyway, we've got a confession. One of the other trainees – name of Ned Wilder, and he has the credit cards to prove it – went down to the local police station just after we got here. And he called his mum first, otherwise he'd have gone first thing this morning."

"He let her know he just killed a man? How nice. What else is there?" demanded Sherlock, every line of his body suggesting that he was inches away from grabbing Lestrade by the lapels and shaking him. You could almost hear him pleading with the universe for the case to become more interesting: on a scale of mountain moving, his willingness to believe in the possibility of a satisfying resolution would have shifted 0.585 of an alp.

"Well, apparently, he learned that Saltire was getting ahead through some unscrupulous deals, and confronted him when they were cycling yesterday evening. Which they _weren't_ supposed to be doing since the extra practice would have given them an unfair advantage over the others, but that's bankers for you." The D.I. consulted his notebook. "Said that he wanted to break free from his lies, because that was no way to live or do business, but Saltire was so self-satisfied and smug that he lost his temper and attacked him with his, ah, bicycle pump."

John grimaced, remembering the crime scene photos.

Sherlock made a face too, though for an entirely different reason. "Unimaginative," he said, and slumped.

"Yeah, well, sorry about that. Does he earn any points for pinning Saltire down with the bicycle to keep him from fighting back? Didn't think so." Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably, and gave Tadfield Manor a dark look over his shoulder. "Personally, I blame this training course of theirs. Healthy competition, my arse. You know how these City boys crack under pressure. Might as well give them actual guns and have done with it. They already _look_ at each other like they're planning murder."

"So we're done here?"

"Well, yes. Technically, we never really started. Unless you want to stay for the paperwork? Nope, didn't think so either."

"But what happens to _Best of Queen _albums when you leave them in cars?" asked Sherlock as he let himself into Lestrade's car. "And what did things turn into before Queen came along? _Did_ they turn into anything?"

John shook his head. Since the case had practically evaporated, he really shouldn't have been surprised that Sherlock had gone back to the Queen phenomenon, worrying at it like a hell-hound with a bone once he'd gotten his shoes back on. "You're a man with a one-track mind."

"_So much to do in one lifetime_," sang Lestrade under his breath in the driver's seat. He flicked on the radio, though he knew better than to expect anything different.

_Ooh, you gonna take me home tonight, ooh, down beside that red firelight…._

"Oh, stay there, I like this one."

Sherlock raised a judgmental eyebrow. "'Fat-Bottomed Girls'? Really, John?"

"I like the song," said John again. "And, well, fat bottoms anyway. Yours is plenty good enough," he added, smiling a little when he saw Sherlock twist ever so slightly in his seat, looking below and behind him with a downward flick of his eyes that wasn't quite as subtle as he hoped.

"I'm starving, is anybody else hungry?" asked Lestrade, rather louder than was necessary, even accounting for the fact that John had reached over and turned up the volume on the radio. "I think I saw a Burger Lord at that last service area."

The doctor groaned. "Greg, no, you know that's not even real food!"

"The chips are nice," volunteered Sherlock.

"Those chips," said John, "have never even seen potatoes."

"Hey, look, it's my car, and if we're going to listen to Freddie Mercury again all the way back to London, we're at least going to stop where I want." Lestrade reversed, and swung onto the scenic drive, where he gave a little wave to the constable who was taking down the crime scene tape. "Even if it is for junk food made out of real junk."

And they drove off with the familiar strains of Queen washing over them.


End file.
